Chapter 43
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
GRAY
Gray lets the hot sand funnel through his fingertips while the searing sun presses against his back.
He rises from his bent knee, scanning the open landscape. Red-tinted sand dunes undulate endlessly with pits of rust-colored quartz grains sprinkled in between. The sky is a peculiar shade of maroon, filled with the light of a red sun. Gray blinks against the brightness of it all.
“Well?” Draven steps up next to him. “What do you think?” His words are muffled by the cream headdress covering his face.
Gray considers before answering, his breath warm against his own covering. “There is definitely still magic here. Though it feels…different.”
Draven nods. “I feel it, too. Powerful. Fluid. But definitely different.”
“Look at that, Frosty,” Gray hears Rhea mutter from behind him. “You’ll be useful after all.”
“And how are you intending to be useful?” Finlay shoots back. “Stabbing sand? Hot air, perhaps?”
She crosses her arms. “If I’m lucky, I’ll be stabbing an insufferable, icy prick soon.”
“Knock it off you two,” Draven snaps. “We need to stay focused on what’s ahead.”
Gray agrees entirely. Though, seeing as he is the odd man out between them all, he allows Draven to do the reprimanding.
Traveling with Rhea, Finlay, and Draven thus far has been…
interesting, to say the least. After Klytis arrived at Sagamon Castle and opened a portal for them to enter Halfin, the tension in the air has been drawn taut.
For a small stint of time, Gray merely suspected it radiated from his ire with Draven, still mildly upset about the colossal blunder regarding Lyra’s security.
Yet after their second night in Halfin, while everyone was plagued with nervous energy as they were forced to a standstill as they worked to secure a small crew willing to give them passage to the Arid Wastelands and then wait two weeks at the Wasteland’s shoreline for their return—thank the gods for House Fjolla’s seemingly endless coffers—Gray soon realized the tension was most certainly being fed by whatever was going on between Finlay and Rhea.
It was made all the more clear once they finally found their crew days later and reached the docks, each of them immediately splitting for opposite ends of the modest ship, where they then stayed.
Draven turns to Gray. “What do you think is the best course of action from here? I’ve been trying to decide, and…” He shakes his head, releasing a sigh. “Well, it’s not like we’re just going to find her footprints in the sand.”
Gray huffs a dry laugh. “Life can never be so easy.”
“No,” he agrees. “It cannot.”
Gray allows all the possibilities to swirl in his mind.
As far as he is concerned, given their current situation, he can only see one viable option.
“Your ability to sense magic is superior to any wielder I’ve ever met.
Given that plus your familiarity with the feel of Lyra’s own magic, I’d say the best recourse from here is to see what you can sense first.”
Draven grunts.
“What?” Gray asks, feeling like his plan is perfectly reasonable.
“When you think about it, this is just like the first test in Bathara’s entrance exam. Only on a much larger, far more difficult scale.”
Now that he mentions it…
“You’re right,” Gray agrees.
Draven smirks like a smug cat. “Good thing I hold the record for the fastest completion time ever seen in Bathara’s history.”
Rhea snorts at that.
Gray is tempted to roll his eyes. “I don’t know, actually. Marcella may have beat your time if she ventured back to Bathara the moment she found her flower. She only returned so late because she stayed to help Lyra.”
Finlay huffs an arrogant laugh. “Had I not taken the time to pay my respects to my home mountains when I was an examinee, nobody would have come close to my time.”
“Alright popsicle, you find Draven’s lost lover then,” Rhea challenges.
Finlay jerks his chin away from her. “I’m not as familiar with her. Therefore, in this instance, I am not the better option. Draven is.”
“Aw, would you look at that,” Rhea fake pouts. “Frosty here can scrounge up some modesty.”
“Would you give it a rest?” he hisses.
“Sorry,” she chirps, her voice growing brittle. “I forgot my blatant disrespect and misplaced sense of self makes you hate me so viscerally.”
He winces, and Gray bounces his eyes between the two of them, thinking that whatever they’ve got going on, he wants no part of it.
“Rhea, stop being antagonizing. And Finlay, stop playing into it.” Draven carves a hand down his face. “Gods, I sound like Kiran. How the fuck does he make this sort of thing look so easy?”
“Practice?” Gray offers.
Draven gives him an imploring look. “You have no idea.” He squares his shoulders back to the sand dunes. “Now, everyone give me a moment to see what I can sense.”
Gray happily obliges, finding his mind snagged on one of his previous thoughts.
Marcella.
A pang of guilt stabs him in the chest. He wishes he could talk to her. Finally explain everything—a feat he was at last about to do when he followed her out to the balcony at the masquerade ball. Yet the uprising attack happened not long after, and he missed his opportunity. Again.
Yet no matter how much he wishes things could be different between them, he stands by his decision. Believes he truly is doing the right thing by waiting until Lyra is back home, safe. Though…
Will she really be safe?
Gods, that’s another thing he has to consider and work through.
Where the hell will they go once they return?
What will they do to prevent the Tani from arresting Lyra and putting her on trial?
Who knows how long she’ll have to be on the run, living a life tucked away in the shadows, constantly looking over her shoulder and covering her tracks.
Regardless, Gray will be there right beside her, not letting her walk that dark path alone for a single second.
Though, he knows there will be another set of feet walking with them.
And truthfully, having Draven Dalmar on their side—despite his recent lapses—makes Gray feel a lot better, strange as it is to admit.
Yet the complication remains: what will Marcella do? Or better yet, what will Gray do without being able to have Marcella around? He already misses her, and it’s only been a couple weeks…
He’s certain Marcella will want to go on the run with them, but…
That is no life to live, and Marcella has too much she’d be giving up.
When they recover Lyra, and Gray eventually speaks with her about the matter—after she’s had ample time to recuperate and gather her thoughts—he suspects Lyra will be in full agreement.
Gray is saved from his overload of thoughts when Draven snaps his eyes open and rasps, “Southeast.”
“You’re sure?”
“I wouldn’t have stopped searching if I wasn’t.”
Gray nods, trusting him. “Then that’s where we go.”
“Frosty,” Rhea drones, “I need more ice. Please.”
Finlay twirls his wrist, and a collection of small ice cubes appear in her hand. Rhea immediately reaches beneath her headdress to press them against her neck. She moans at the sensation.
Gray understands entirely. Wishes he himself was in a bathtub filled with ice cubes. They’ve been wandering the Wastelands for days, and Gray has never quite known a misery such as this.
“Are you still confident about this, brother?” Finlay asks Draven, who walks about three paces ahead of everyone, leading their traveling party.
“Yes. The pull of magic is growing stronger with each passing day. We’re close. I know we are.”
“That’s fine and all, but are you sure you’re following the right trail?”
Draven stills, cutting a look back at Finlay. “Do you really doubt me?”
“I doubt how much longer everyone can withstand these conditions.”
“Then make more ice for everyone,” Draven bites out. “It’s why you’re here, isn’t it?”
Gray glances between them, sighing internally. Between the travel, minimal food, and the heat, everyone is on edge and dangerously irritable. That paired with the already abrasive temperaments of both Finlay and Draven has been a recipe for an impending disaster.
“Yes,” Finlay agrees, tone clipped. “It is. But there are other factors to consider besides just the heat. Bathing. Food rations. Shall I go on?”
“What you should be doing is focusing on keeping everyone cool while keeping your thoughts to yourself.”
Rhea steps forward, positioning herself between the two heirs. “And both of you should quit bickering.”
“Ironic, coming from you,” Finlay says dryly.
“Stop talking to her like that,” Draven growls.
Rhea glances between them and sighs, pinching the bridge of her nose. “Look, everyone is sweaty, tired, and probably a little malnourished. The sun is about to set, so let’s just call it a day and set up camp for the night. Alright?”
When neither of the two heirs say anything, Gray steps forward. “I think that’s a great idea. The farther south we’ve traveled, the colder the nights have gotten. Rhea’s right—it’s best we stop now and make camp.”
Finlay and Draven hold each other’s simmering stares, their tension permeating from their bodies as forcibly as the heat from the Wasteland’s red sun. Draven’s eyes flicker black.
Rhea and Gray exchange wary glances. Are they really going to make them intervene?
Right as Gray is convinced they will have to, Draven pulls his chin away from Finlay and heads off in the direction of a rock formation shaped somewhat like a thumb, squeezing his eyes closed and shaking his head. “Fine,” he grumbles.
Nobody speaks for a while after that.